to keep the scorpions and ants and snakes at bay, and then left him in
pitch darkness to his own devices, with a parting admonition to keep
his slippers on for the floor, in the dark, would be the prowling-place
of venomed death.

It was he who set the lamp on the little table by his bedside, for his
servant--for the first time on that journey--was not at hand to
execute his thoughts almost before he had spoken them. Mahommed Gunga
had explained that the man was sick; and that seemed strange, for he
had been well enough, and more than usually efficient, but an hour
before.

But there were stranger things and far more irritating ones to
interfere with the peaceful passage of the night. There were sounds
that were unaccountable; there was the memory of the wayside tombstone
and the train of thought that it engendered. Added to the hell-hot,
baking stuffiness that radiated from the walls, there came the
squeaking of a punka rope pulled out of time--the piece of piping in
the mud-brick wall through which the rope passed had become clogged and
rusted, and the villager pressed into service had forgotten how to
pull; he jerked at the cord between nods as the heat of the veranda
and the unaccustomed night duty combined to make him sleepy.

Soon the squeaking became intolerable, and Cunningham swore at him--
in English, because he spoke little of any native language yet, and had
not the least idea in any case what the punka-wallah's tongue might be.
For a while after that the pulling was more even; he lay on one
elbow, letting the swinging mat fan just miss his ear, and examining
his rifle and pistols for lack of anything better to keep him from
going mad. Then, suddenly, the pulling ceased altogether. Silence and